


ain't no sunshine

by floweryfran



Series: and i knew for sure (i was loved) [5]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Awesome Michelle Jones, F/M, Michelle Jones-centric, POV Michelle Jones, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Michelle Jones, Spideychelle, imperfect sure but good, seek is right its better when she has good parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23929876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: Michelle usually doesn’t wake with Peter’s nightmares.He’s not the type to scream out or thrash. He tenses, rock-tight, jaw clenched, back straight. When he wakes up, his eyes pop open, flit, search the room for shadows that don’t belong. He grabs a handful of the sheets, or an armful of her, and waits for the sun to rise in silence.Tonight is different, but only because, by some fracture in chance, she had been awake already when he froze.or: they are the dancing queens, ig
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: and i knew for sure (i was loved) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722340
Comments: 63
Kudos: 326





	ain't no sunshine

Michelle usually doesn’t wake with Peter’s nightmares.

He’s not the type to scream out or thrash. He tenses, rock-tight, jaw clenched, back straight. When he wakes up, his eyes pop open, flit, search the room for shadows that don’t belong. He grabs a handful of the sheets, or an armful of her, and waits for the sun to rise in silence.

Tonight is different, but only because, by some fracture in chance, she had been awake already when he froze.

She’d been sitting on her side of the bed, laptop on her thighs, typing up a new introduction for the article her boss had mentioned in passing and she had claimed. It had been plaguing her all day, an itch she couldn’t reach, but she’s got a half-baked idea now and she’s going to stick together with spit and a prayer and a whole host of hard work if it kills her. 

She stops mid-type when Peter seizes up. Looks down at him, closing her laptop halfway. 

Usually, she thinks of his dreams as something that just  _ is. _ She can’t stop them. Can’t fix them. She can be there for him to hold onto after, when he presses his nose into her hair or drags her arm over his chest. She can whisper, “I’m right here,” or “you’re right here,” or “we’re at home,” and then talk mindlessly until he relaxes: about her work, or the weird smell on the wind, or the cat picture Morgan sent her. 

Seeing it happen, though. Something in the pit of her stomach writhes as his eyes roll under the purple sheen of his lids, searching for something he can’t see. 

She drops a hand flat on his chest and rubs at it. Maybe that will do something.

She’s never been good at the—emotional parts. Her parents were good to her, but they didn’t hold her, didn’t smooth band-aids over her skinned knees. She was taught to pick herself up and make her own way. To decide for herself. To be brash, if that’s what it takes: fear over love, sharpness and wit and feigned confidence like a sash and shield. If mountains stood in her path, she grabbed up the trowel and started to dig. 

Peter isn’t like that. Peter is a thumb on her cheekbone when she’s pissed; lips on her shoulder when he’s going to bed but she’s still hunched over the computer in the kitchen; head on her chest when they find time to lay out on the couch together. His hand searches for hers when they walk side by side on the sidewalk. He bumps their hips together like metronomes too close when they stand in front of the register in the coffee shop and pick their drinks. 

She tries for him. She always does. But it’s like tossing herself into a cave blind and expecting to find diamonds among the bat shit and stalagmites. 

She sets her shoulders. Drops her laptop on the nightstand and flicks the lamp on. Scoots down in the sheets and shakes Peter’s shoulder, the other hand smoothing sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Hey,” she breathes, and when he does not rouse, she says, louder, “Peter. Wake up.”

His eyes shoot open and he freezes.

“Hey,” she says, making sure he can see her face. She continues to brush his bangs back. “Nightmare.”

He swallows, throat bobbing, and nods. 

His eyes are wet.

She hesitates a moment before leaning forward and pressing her lips to his forehead. 

“Did I wake you?” he says, scratchy.

“No,” she assures. “No, I was up, working on that thing for Jameson.”

“Oh,” he says.

She stares at him. The longer she looks, she catches the slight tremble in his lip. He tries to hide it, jaw clenched tight, but she sees. It’s what she’s good at. Seeing him, but taking too long to collect the courage to  _ do. _

Doing. That is something she needs to practice.

It’s about time she does, anyway.

“Let’s go get some tea,” she suggests. “Sit on the couch. Change of scenery, since neither of us are sleeping.”

“Okay,” he breathes. 

They sit up. MJ grabs a pair of sweatshirts off the chair in the corner. They’re both hers, really, but Peter never really shot up in height even when his chest spread broad so it still fits him just fine. She stares at the floor while they walk into the kitchen, his socks and her bare toes. 

She looks up at him. Still pale, but calm. He used to be panicked after nightmares, she knows, and remembers. After Europe, he would wake up and need to leave the room. Walk around until his heart settled back into his chest, or find May, or Tony, depending if they were staying at May’s apartment, the New Compound, or at the lake house. Someone to calm him.

He didn’t let her see it, then. He started to, a little at a time, but by the time they were truly real together, truly bare, he grew into the dreams. Seemed to accept them for what they are. Not frightening so much as disheartening. Another weight curling his shoulders. Making his footsteps shuffle. God, he’s always so tired. She would give anything,  _ everything, _ to give him some rest—real rest. 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter, and scrolls. 

Peter stands in front of the fridge, door wide open, Brita already in hand, staring at the cluttered shelves. Unmoving except for the rise and fall of his shoulders letting her know he’s awake.

She wishes she could look into his mind, just for a second, to see what he needs. Prod around, water the roses, dust the shelves. Pour over the encyclopedias of him, run her fingertips over their crease-cornered spines, breathe in the musty, well-worn scent.

She presses play on the song she had been looking for. 

The first chord plays, and Peter starts. He peeks over his shoulder.

MJ stands waiting, arms up. “Dance with me,” she says. 

He never questions her, throwing himself into everything without stuttering. 

He puts the Brita on the counter and comes to her. In the soft light of the fridge, she takes him into her arms and holds him. 

Her hands lock on the back of his neck, fingers toying with the shorn edges of his hair. His chin settles on her shoulder, elbows loose on her hips. She thinks maybe he is the only person whose arms make her feel completely unchained, windborn. Far from trapped. Confetti and leaves on the breeze.

She hums along with Bill Withers. Peter presses his lips to her neck once, then burrows back into her shoulder. They’re both pale blue in the fridge light, the chill touching the skin of their legs, raising goosebumps on the bare flesh beneath Peter’s boxers. Their knees bump, hipbones press, feet knot together. They’re terrible, but it’s not about the dance.

_ “Ain’t so sunshine when she’s gone,” _ Peter sings along under his breath, to MJ’s surprise.  _ “Only darkness every day.” _

“You’re my sunshine,” MJ tells him. She pours everything she’s got into it.

Peter presses a kiss to the corner of her jaw. Gentle, fleeting.

The night is still around them. 

**Author's Note:**

> mj and peter have all my uwus
> 
> i told you 60 seconds til another goes up and here we are! angst train choo choo
> 
> <33 leave me a thought, spare thought? spare thought?


End file.
